Night World 1 (10 page)

“Not if I'm going to be concentrating on
you,
” James said. “And there are certain people who can't be influenced by mind control at all—your brother, here, is one of them. Your mom could be another.”

“All right; I'll get them to go out,” Phillip said. He gulped, obviously uncomfortable and trying to hide it. “And once they're gone…then what?”

James looked at him inscrutably. “Then Poppy and I do what we have to do. And then
you
and I watch TV.”

“Watch TV,” Phil repeated, sounding numb.

“I've got to be here when the doctor comes—and the people from the funeral home.”

Phil looked utterly horrified at the mention of the funeral home. For that matter, Poppy didn't feel too cheerful about it herself. If it weren't for the rich, strange blood coursing inside her, calming her…

“Why?”
Phillip was demanding of James.

James shook his head, very slightly. His face was expressionless. “I just do,” he said. “You'll understand later. For now, just trust me.”

Poppy decided not to pursue it.

“So you guys are going to have to make up tomorrow,” she said. “In front of Mom and Cliff. Otherwise it'll be too weird for you to hang out together.”

“It'll be too weird no matter what,” Phil said under his breath. “All right. Come over tomorrow afternoon and we'll make up. And I'll get them to leave us with Poppy.”

James nodded. “I'd better go now.” He stood. Phil stepped back to let him out the door, but James hesitated by Poppy.

“You gonna be all right?” he asked in a low voice.

Poppy nodded staunchly.

“Tomorrow, then.” He touched her cheek with his fingertips. The briefest contact, but it made Poppy's heart leap and it turned her words into the truth. She
would
be all right.

They looked at each other a moment, then James turned away.

Tomorrow, Poppy thought, watching the door close behind him. Tomorrow is the day I die.

One thing about it, Poppy thought—not many people were privileged to
know
exactly when they were going to die. So not many people had the chance to say goodbye the way she planned to.

It didn't matter that she wasn't
really
dying. When a caterpillar changes into a butterfly it loses its caterpillar life. No more shinnying up twigs, no more eating leaves.

No more El Camino High School, Poppy thought. No more sleeping in this bed.

She was going to have to leave it all behind. Her family, her hometown. Her entire human life. She was starting out into a strange new future with no idea of what was ahead. All she could do was trust James—and trust her own ability to adapt.

It was like looking at a pale and curving road stretching in front of her, and not being able to see where it went as it disappeared into the darkness.

No more Rollerblading down the boardwalk at Venice Beach, Poppy thought. No more slap of wet feet on concrete at the Tamashaw public pool. No more shopping at the Village.

To say goodbye, she looked at every corner of her room. Goodbye white-painted dresser. Goodbye desk where she had sat writing hundreds of letters—as proven by the stains where she'd dropped sealing wax on the wood. Goodbye bed, goodbye misty white bed curtains that had made her feel like an Arabian princess in a fairy tale. Goodbye stereo.

Ouch,
she thought. My stereo. And my
CDs.
I can't leave them; I can't….

But of course she could. She would have to.

It was probably just as well that she had to deal with the stereo before she walked out of her room. It built her up to start dealing with the loss of
people.

“Hi, Mom,” she said shakily, in the kitchen.

“Poppy! I didn't know you were up.”

She hugged her mother hard, in that one moment aware of so many little sensations: the kitchen tile under her bare feet, the faint coconut smell that clung to her mother's hair from her shampoo. Her mother's arms around her, and the warmth of her mother's body.

“Are you hungry, sweetie? You look so much better.”

Poppy couldn't stand to look into her mother's anxiously hopeful face, and the thought of food made her nauseated. She burrowed back into her mother's shoulder.

“Just hold me a minute,” she said.

It came to her, then, that she wasn't going to be able to say goodbye to everything after all. She couldn't tie up all the loose ends of her life in one afternoon. She might be privileged to know that this was her last day here, but she was going out just like everyone else—unprepared.

“Just remember I love you,” she muttered into her mother's shoulder, blinking back tears.

She let her mother put her back to bed, then. She spent the rest of the day making phone calls. Trying to learn a
little
bit about the life she was about to exit, the people she was supposed to know. Trying to appreciate it all,
fast,
before she had to leave it.

“So, Elaine, I miss you,” she said into the mouthpiece, her eyes fixed on the sunlight coming in her window.

“So, Brady, how's it going?”

“So, Laura, thanks for the flowers.”

“Poppy, are you
okay
?” they all said. “When are we going to see you again?”

Poppy couldn't answer. She wished she could call her dad, but nobody knew where he was.

She also wished she had actually
read
the play
Our Town
when she'd been assigned it last year, instead of using Cliff Notes and quick thinking to fake it. All she could remember now was that it was about a dead girl who got the chance to look at one ordinary day in her life and really appreciate it. It might have helped her sort out her own feelings now—but it was too late.

I wasted a lot of high school, Poppy realized. I used my brains to outsmart the teachers—and that really wasn't very smart at all.

She discovered in herself a new respect for Phil, who actually used his brain to learn things. Maybe her brother wasn't just a pitiful straitlaced grind after all. Maybe—oh, God—
he'd
been right all along.

I'm changing so much, Poppy thought, and she shivered.

Whether it was the strange alien blood in her or the cancer itself or just part of growing up, she didn't know. But she was changing.

The doorbell rang. Poppy knew who it was without leaving the room. She could sense James.

He's here to start the play, Poppy thought, and looked at her clock. Incredible. It was almost four o'clock already.

Time literally seemed to be flying by.

Don't panic. You have hours yet, she told herself, and picked up the phone again. But it seemed only minutes later that her mother came knocking on the bedroom door.

“Sweetie, Phil thinks we should go out—and James has come over—but I told him I don't think you want to see him—and I don't really want to leave you at night….” Her mother was uncharacteristically flustered.

“No, I'm happy to see James. Really. And I think you
should
take a break. Really.”

“Well—I'm glad you and James have made up. But I still don't know….”

It took time to convince her, to persuade her that Poppy was so much better, that Poppy had weeks or months ahead of her to live. That there was no reason to stick around on this particular Friday night.

But at last Poppy's mother kissed her and agreed. And then there was nothing to do but say goodbye to Cliff. Poppy got a hug from him and finally forgave him for not being her dad.

You did your best, she thought as she disengaged from his crisp dark suit and looked at his boyishly square jaw. And you're going to be the one to take care of Mom—afterward. So I forgive you. You're all right, really.

And then Cliff and her mom were walking out, and it was the last time, the very last time to say goodbye. Poppy called it after them and they both turned and smiled.

When they were gone, James and Phil came into Poppy's room. Poppy looked at James. His gray eyes were opaque, revealing nothing of his feelings.

“Now?” she said, and her voice trembled slightly.

“Now.”

“
T
hings have to be right,” Poppy said. “Things have to be just right for this. Get some candles, Phil.”

Phil was looking ashen and haggard. “Candles?”

“As many as you can find. And some pillows. I need lots of pillows.” She knelt by the stereo to examine a haphazard pile of CDs. Phil stared at her briefly, then went out.

“
Structures from Silence
…no. Too repetitious,” Poppy said, rummaging through the pile. “
Deep Forest
—no. Too hyper. I need something
ambient.
”

“How about this?” James picked a CD up. Poppy looked at the label.

Music to Disappear In.

Of course. It was perfect. Poppy took the CD and met James's gaze. Usually he referred to the haunting soft strains of ambient music as “New Age mush.”

“You understand,” she said quietly.

“Yes. But you're not dying, Poppy. This isn't a death scene you're setting up.”

“But I'm going away. I'm changing.” Poppy couldn't explain exactly, but something in her said she was doing the right thing. She was dying to her old life. It was a solemn occasion, a Passage.

And of course, although neither of them mentioned it, they both knew she
might
die for good. James had been very frank about that—some people didn't make it through the transition.

Phil came back with candles, Christmas candles, emergency candles, scented votive candles. Poppy directed him to place them around the room and light them. She herself went to the bathroom to change into her best nightgown. It was flannel, with a pattern of little strawberries.

Just imagine, she thought as she left the bathroom. This is the last time I'll ever walk down this hall, the last time I'll push open my bedroom door.

The bedroom was beautiful. The soft glow of candlelight gave it an aura of sanctity, of mystery. The music was unearthly and sweet, and Poppy felt she could fall into it forever, the way she fell in her dreams.

Poppy opened the closet and used a hanger to bat a tawny stuffed lion and a floppy gray Eeyore down from the top shelf. She took them to her bed and put them beside the mounded pillows. Maybe it was stupid, maybe it was childish, but she wanted them with her.

She sat on the bed and looked at James and Phillip.

They were both looking at her. Phil was clearly upset, touching his mouth to stop its trembling. James was upset, too, although only someone who knew him as well as Poppy did would have been able to tell.

“It's all right,” Poppy told them. “Don't you see?
I'm
all right, so there's no excuse for you not to be.”

And the strange thing was, it was the truth. She was all right. She felt calm and clear now, as if everything had become very simple. She saw the road ahead of her, and all she had to do was follow it, step by step.

Phil came over to squeeze her hand. “How does this—how does this work?” he asked James huskily.

“First we'll exchange blood,” James said—speaking to Poppy. Looking only at her. “It doesn't have to be a lot; you're right on the border of changing already. Then the two kinds of blood fight it out—sort of the last battle, if you see what I mean.” He smiled faintly and painfully, and Poppy nodded.

“While that's happening you'll feel weaker and weaker. And then you'll just—go to sleep. The change happens while you're asleep.”

“And when do I wake up?” Poppy asked.

“I'll give you a kind of posthypnotic suggestion about that. Tell you to wake up when I come to get you. Don't worry about it; I've got all the details figured out. All you need to do is rest.”

Phil was running nervous hands through his hair, as if he was just now thinking about what kind of details he and James were going to have to deal with. “Wait a minute,” he said in almost a croak. “When—when you say ‘sleep'—she's going to look…”

“Dead,” Poppy supplied, when his voice ran out.

James gave Phil a cold look. “Yes. We've been over this.”

“And then—we're really going to—what's going to
happen
to her?”

James glared.

“It's okay,” Poppy said softly. “Tell him.”

“You know what's going to happen,” James said through clenched teeth to Phillip. “She can't just disappear. We'd have the police
and
the Night People after us, looking for her. No, it's got to seem that she died from the cancer, and that means everything's got to happen exactly the way it would if she
had
died.”

Phil's sick expression said he wasn't at his most rational. “You're sure there isn't any other way?”

“No,” James said.

Phil wet his lips. “Oh, God.”

Poppy herself didn't want to dwell on it too much. She said fiercely, “
Deal
with it, Phil. You've got to. And remember, if it doesn't happen now it's going to happen in a few weeks—for real.”

Phil was holding on to one of the brass bedposts so hard that his knuckles were pale. But he'd gotten the point, and there was no one better than Phil at bracing himself. “You're right,” he said thinly, with the ghost of his old efficient manner. “Okay, I'm dealing with it.”

“Then let's get started,” Poppy said, making her voice calm and steady. As if she were dealing with everything effortlessly herself.

James said to Phil, “You don't want to see this part. Go out and watch TV for a few minutes.”

Phil hesitated, then nodded and left.

“One thing,” Poppy said to James as she scooted to the middle of the bed. She was still trying desperately to sound casual. “After the funeral—well, I'll be asleep, won't I? I won't wake up…you know. In my nice little coffin.” She looked up at him. “It's just that I'm claustrophobic, a little.”

“You won't wake up there,” James said. “Poppy, I wouldn't let that happen to you. Trust me; I've thought of everything.”

Poppy nodded. I do trust you, she thought.

Then she held her arms out to him.

He touched her neck, so she tilted her chin back. As the blood was drawn from her, she felt her mind drawn into his.

Don't worry, Poppy. Don't be afraid.
All his thoughts were ferociously protective. And even though it only confirmed that there was something to be afraid
of,
that this could go wrong, Poppy felt peaceful. The direct sense of his love made her calm, flooded her with light.

She suddenly felt distance and height and depth—spaciousness. As if her horizons had expanded almost to infinity in an instant. As if she'd discovered a new dimension. As if there were no limits or obstacles to what she and James could do together.

She felt…free.

I'm getting light-headed, she realized. She could feel herself going limp in James's arms. Swooning like a wilting flower.

I've taken enough,
James said in her mind. The warm animal mouth on her throat pulled back. “Now it's your turn.”

This time, though, he didn't make the cut at his wrist. He took off his T-shirt and, with a quick, impulsive gesture, ran a fingernail along the base of his throat.

Oh, Poppy thought. Slowly, almost reverently, she leaned forward. James's hand supported the back of her head. Poppy put her arms around him, feeling his bare skin under the flannel of her nightgown.

It was better this way. But if James was right, it was another last time. She and James could never exchange blood again.

I can't accept that,
Poppy thought, but she couldn't concentrate on anything for very long. This time, instead of clearing her brain, the wild, intoxicating vampire blood was making her more confused. More heavy and sleepy.

James?

It's all right. It's the beginning of the change.

Heavy…sleepy…warm. Lapped in salty ocean waves. She could almost picture the vampire blood trickling through her veins, conquering everything in its path. It was ancient blood, primeval. It was changing her into something old, something that had been around since the dawn of time. Something primitive and basic.

Every molecule in her body, changing…

Poppy, can you hear me?
James was shaking her slightly. Poppy had been so engrossed in the sensations that she hadn't even realized she wasn't drinking any longer. James was cradling her.

“Poppy.”

It was an effort to open her eyes. “I'm all right. Just…sleepy.”

His arms tightened around her, then he laid her gently on the mounded pillows. “You can rest now. I'll get Phil.”

But before he went, he kissed her on the forehead.

My first kiss. Poppy thought, her eyes drifting shut again. And I'm comatose. Great.

She felt the bed give under weight and looked up to see Phil. Phil looked very nervous, sitting gingerly, staring at Poppy. “So what's happening now?” he asked.

“The vampire blood's taking over,” James said.

Poppy said, “I'm really sleepy.”

There was no pain. Just a feeling of wanting to glide away. Her body now felt warm and numb, as if she were insulated by a soft, thick aura.

“Phil? I forgot to say—thank you. For helping out. And everything. You're a good brother, Phil.”

“You don't have to say that now,” Phil said tersely. “You can say it later. I'm still going to be here later, you know.”

But I might not be. Poppy thought. This is all a gamble. And I'd never take it, except that the only alternative was to give up without even trying to fight.

I fought, didn't I? At least I fought.

“Yes, you did,” Phil said, his voice trembling. Poppy hadn't been aware she was speaking aloud. “You've always been a fighter,” Phil said. “I've learned so much from you.”

Which was funny, because she'd learned so much from
him,
even if most of it was in the last twenty-four hours. She wanted to tell him that, but there was so much to say, and she was so tired. Her tongue felt thick; her whole body weak and languorous.

“Just…hold my hand,” she said, and she could hear that her voice was no louder than a breath. Phillip took one of her hands and James the other.

That was good. This was the way to do it, with Eeyore and her lion on the pillows beside her and Phil and James holding her hands, keeping her safe and anchored.

One of the candles was scented with vanilla, a warm and homey smell. A smell that reminded her of being a kid. Nilla wafers and naptime. That was what this was like. Just a nap in Miss Spurgeon's kindergarten, with the sun slanting across the floor and James on a mat beside her.

So safe, so serene…

“Oh, Poppy,” Phil whispered.

James said, “You're doing great, kiddo. Everything's just right.”

That was what Poppy needed to hear. She let herself fall backward into the music, and it
was
like falling in a dream, without fear. It was like being a raindrop falling into the ocean that had started you.

At the last moment she thought, I'm not ready. But she already knew the answer to that. Nobody was ever ready.

But she'd been stupid—she'd forgotten the most important thing. She'd never told James she loved him. Not even when he'd said he loved her.

She tried to get enough air, enough strength to say it. But it was too late. The outside world was gone and she couldn't feel her body any longer. She was floating in the darkness and the music, and all she could do now was sleep.

“Sleep,” James said, leaning close to Poppy. “Don't wake up until I call you. Just sleep.”

Every muscle in Phil's body was rigid. Poppy looked so peaceful—pale, with her hair spread out in coppery curls on the pillow, and her eyelashes black on her cheeks and her lips parted as she breathed gently. She looked like a porcelain baby doll. But the more peaceful she got, the more terrified Phil felt.

I can deal with this, he told himself. I
have
to.

Poppy gave a soft exhalation, and then suddenly she was moving. Her chest heaved once, twice. Her hand tightened on Phil's and her eyes flew open—but she didn't seem to be seeing anything. She simply looked astonished.

“Poppy!” Phil grabbed at her, getting a handful of flannel nightgown. She was so small and fragile inside it. “Poppy!”

The heaving gasps stopped. For one moment Poppy was suspended in air, then her eyes closed and she fell back on the pillows. Her hand was limp in Phil's.